


There Are No Words, It’s Only Music There

by RainbowLorikeet



Category: Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)
Genre: Drama & Romance, F/F, Fluff, I promise, Its all fluff because its all I know how to write, Music, Romance, Tenderness, some bitterness but no major angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:07:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27345553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainbowLorikeet/pseuds/RainbowLorikeet
Summary: Four times Marianne played for Héloïse.The title is a quote attributed to Antonio Vivaldi.//La version originale en françaisest aussi disponible.
Relationships: Héloïse & Sophie (Portrait of a Lady on Fire), Héloïse/Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 76





	1. Morpheus

Marianne walked into the ballroom which she had been using as a bedroom and a studio for the past week. She dragged her feet towards the bed, without even thinking of the fire in the hearth, which was nothing but embers by now. The air was filled with the smell of half-dried oil paint and turpentine. Marianne undid the top of her dress with a slow and tired movement. She then fell heavily onto the bed, and took off her shoes one by one, making sure to drop them delicately so as to not make a noise. At last, she lay down, her eyes already shut. The events of evening had drained her.  
  
First, there had been the walk in the forest to the bonfire, with Héloïse and Sophie. Sophie had guided the small group in the dark, looking for the fire through the trees, or at least a bit of moonlight to light the way. Héloïse followed closely, and Marianne came last. It was no easy feat: Marianne had to avoid the rocks and pebbles littering the path, and all the while not lose sight of her two companions. Her eyes moved constantly between the ground and Héloïse, whose neck and blond hair were the only visible hints in the low light of the night. Marianne felt chills down her spine when her eyes landed on Héloïse. She figured it was due to the winter cold.  
  
A strong smell of smoke had finally led them to the bonfire: a clearing, a fire, and women chatting and drinking. Marianne had gotten closer to the flames right away to warm herself up. She had seen Sophie approach one of the women, who was older, judging by her grey hair. Sophie had talked with her, while the woman felt her stomach with both hands. Marianne had also seen Héloïse take off her cape (evidently, _she_ was not cold) and chat with a young girl next to her, before exchanging a coin for a small glass object that Marianne could not see properly.  
  
Later, the women had started to sing. A melody first, each of the singers with a distinct note while they clapped their hands. The sum of their voices created an intoxicating song, and Marianne had felt her heart beat to a new frequency, one which no orchestra had ever caused before. The women had then started to repeat Latin words, like an incantation. Marianne knew some Latin from her time at the convent, and from mass, but she could not make out the words that they sang. She had turned towards Héloïse, on the other side of the fire, hoping for a sign of understanding from her, or at least, one of mutual confusion. Héloïse, who seemed as captivated as her, must have felt eyes on her, and she had looked towards Marianne through the flames. And she had smiled at her. Her look, ever more exhilarating in the boiling air above the fire, and the tireless polyphonic music, had made Marianne feel like she was hallucinating.  
  
There were three quiet knocks on the door. Marianne stood up abruptly; she had dozed off. As she was putting her shoes back on, the rest of the evening came back to her at once – she had not dreamed it: Héloïse’s dress catching fire, Héloïse stumbling down as two women put out the flames, and Marianne rushing to help her up, almost catching fire herself; the women crowding around them, the chant replaced by cold air, and Sophie, seeing as Héloïse was visibly shaken, proposing that they go home. The walk back had seemed even longer and more exhausting. Once at the manor, Marianne had wished Sophie and Héloïse good night, before finding her way to her bedroom, hoping to find sleep quickly.  
  
Marianne was hastily lighting up a candle when she heard the voice on the other side of the door:  
  
“Marianne. Are you asleep?”  
  
“I’m coming,” Marianne said.  
  
She recognized Héloïse’s voice, and that made her hurry a bit more. She opened the door while wriggling her heel into an uncooperative shoe. Héloïse looked disheartened, wearing only her chemise.  
  
“I apologize, I can’t sleep. Can I come in?”  
  
She was already walking through the threshold as she finished the question. Marianne took a step back to let her in, and Héloïse did not keep her waiting. She went past Marianne and straight to the bed, where she sat down. She turned her head to the painter. The moonlight spilled from the window onto her hair and the right side of her face, and Marianne wondered if she could make that vision into a painting. A bit of blue in the hair, some white on the cheek, perhaps… She got a hold of herself again, looking for her pipe with the light of her candle. She lit the pipe and handed it to the woman on her bed.  
  
“Thank you,” Héloïse said, blowing the smoke. “That will calm me down a little bit.”  
  
“Are you thinking about your dress?” Marianne asked as she sat by Héloïse’s left side, trying not to block the ray of moonlight on her face.  
  
“Yes. Sophie said we could mend it easily.”  
  
She lowered her eyes, her expression suddenly becoming somber.  
  
“It’s the fear of catching fire that keeps me from sleeping.”  
  
Marianne followed her gaze, down to her wrists and her hands resting on her chemise. She could not help but remember how, a few days ago, she had burned Héloïse’s unfinished portrait. The heart of the painting had caught fire first, and the most vividly. The entire piece had ended up in the chimney, and Marianne felt guilty for it.  
  
Héloïse looked up, letting her eyes wander over the furniture covered with white sheets at the back of the room. She remembered the harpsichord there, and the moment where she and Marianne had played it, a few days earlier. The sheet had remained up. She looked at Marianne.  
  
“Would you play for me again?”  
  
“We would wake Sophie,” Marianne said, now concerned with her hosts’ sleep.  
  
But an idea had already crossed Marianne’s mind, an image that she could not explain, and yet that she desired so fervently it twisted her stomach into a knot.  
  
“You just have to play quietly,” Héloïse whispered, as if to set the tone for the performance. “Come.”  
  
Marianne thought she saw something playful, almost defying, in Héloïse’s eyes, as they slipped from her view. Héloïse stood close to the harpsichord. Marianne had only known her for a week, but she knew that Héloïse would do as she pleased. She followed her and sat on the bench, setting down the candle on top of the instrument. Héloïse watched Marianne settle herself, like a spectator waiting for the pianist’s entrance on stage. She then rested her hand on Marianne’s shoulder as she sat down close to her. The painter, now a musician, trailed her finger over the keys, trying to ignore the chills that had just gone down her neck once more.  
  
“What are you going to play?” Héloïse asked.  
  
“If you cannot sleep, maybe music will help.”  
  
“Do you know a lullaby?” Héloïse was now intrigued, and she turned to Marianne, seeking her eyes. She found them already on her, they had been waiting. Marianne smiled.  
  
“My mother used to play it for me when I was a child,” she said. “I would cuddle up to her, and I usually fell asleep before the end of the song.”  
  
She pressed one of the keys, as a trial. The instrument was old, but alive, and the sound resonated all around the room. Marianne could have sworn that it could be heard as far as the sea, down the cliff outside the manor. She hoped that Sophie was soundly asleep, took a deep breath, and played the first notes of the lullaby. The soft, round melody made her nostalgic. Héloïse got a bit closer to her, their shoulders brushing. The painter became suddenly more nervous, hit a wrong key, and another, and the music stopped. She stammered.  
  
“I’m sorry. I can’t see clearly with this candle.”  
  
Héloïse did not seem to understand what had interrupted Marianne, and she studied her face for a moment. She then stood up from the bench, turned around and walked to a small table where various painting tools lay in disorder. Marianne’s eyes followed her, but she did not move, troubled as she was to have missed a simple lullaby. Héloïse found a new candle by a sketchbook, lit it up, and came back to sit close to the painter. This time, she kept the candle in her hands to illuminate the harpsichord.  
  
“Play it again,” Héloïse said. “I enjoyed it.”  
  
Marianne, now running out of excuses, started the song from the beginning. This time, she did not miss. She effortlessly found the keys, one after the other: her mother had played it enough times. She thought that she could have played it in total darkness, had it not been for the attentive, distracting eyes next to her.  
  
The lullaby over, she rested her hands on the keyboard, staying still as she became aware of Héloïse’s regular breathing. The woman was not asleep, but she had moved yet closer against Marianne, and she had put down the candle on her lap. She was staring at the flame. Reflections danced on her nose and lips in a colour scheme much different from the earlier, quiet blue light. She looked peaceful, at last. Marianne took her time before turning her head towards Héloïse.  
  
“Let’s go to bed,” she said softly.  
  
“Yes. In a moment,” Héloïse replied.  
  
She handed the candle to Marianne, who finally allowed herself to move. Héloïse slipped her freed hand around the painter’s arm and rested her head on her shoulder. Marianne closed her eyes. She felt Héloïse’s temple, firm against her arm, and her hair brushing her neck with each breath. She did not move, but her heart beat as loud in her chest at the harpsichord had sounded in the room. She even feared that Héloïse would hear it, but the woman did not seem to. Marianne managed to control her breathing enough to blow out the candle in her hands, then the one she had left on the harpsichord. Once the darkness settled, the image she had had on her mind earlier finally materialized: no more fire, no more oil in the air, no more portrait to worry about. Only the echos of the music, the Moon, and Héloïse.  
  
Héloïse stood up too soon, as she noticed that the light had gone out. It took her longer to pull her hand away from Marianne’s arm. She did it slowly, so slowly, as if to make the gesture last before its inevitable conclusion. The two of them, now separated, stayed side by side for a moment.  
  
“You were right,” Héloïse said in a voice so low Marianne had to lean in to hear it. “It’s not easy to relate music. To say what it feels like.”  
  
Marianne remained silent, all too aware of Héloïse’s face close to hers. Their eyes met. This time, Héloïse had been waiting. A strand of hair had fallen across her temple. The night made it look almost silver-coloured, the painter thought, she would have to consider it if she ever wanted to paint that picture, she would have to remember, to _not_ forget it.  
  
She thought for a moment.  
  
“Perhaps one doesn’t always need to express everything with words. There is art, there is music…” she said, before raising her hand to Héloïse’s face, gently, so as to not startle her. She pushed the rebellious hair behind her ear, overwhelmed by the feeling of her fingers against her face. Héloïse did not take her eyes off of her.  
  
“... there are gestures,” Marianne finished, her fingers tracing around the ear before resting close to the back of her head.  
  
Bodies froze as if they were posing. They stayed still eternally, one blending into the other’s gaze, both suddenly stuck in a dizzying time that started stretching and folding onto itself at a frightening speed. Marianne thought she would faint, and then the moment passed as swiftly as it had came. Héloïse looked away. Another moment passed, and she broke the silence:   
  
“So long as people have the same understanding of those gestures."  
  
“Yes,” Marianne sighed, finally letting her hand come down.  
  
Héloïse stood up first, quickly walking towards the door. Marianne wanted to follow her, but she only had time to take one step forward before the other woman, already at the threshold, turned around to face her.  
  
“We can talk about music again tomorrow, during our walk. Unless we find something else to do.”  
  
Marianne nodded. She was too worn out to ask what that meant. Héloïse also stayed still a few seconds, maybe wondering whether she should explain herself. Instead, she chose to leave, closing the door behind her. Marianne was transfixed. She did not want to sleep anymore, not now, not _right now_. Not after the way the ground had crumbled under her feet, after having been down in the abyss and up in the stars, in a brief but blazing race. She felt drunk.  
  
She stayed up a long time, in the dark, hoping to hear a knock on the door again. It never came, and Marianne resigned herself to sleep. For the second time that night, she collapsed onto her bed.  
  
“Tomorrow, maybe,” she thought, just as she surrendered into the arms of Morpheus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a few tries, finally a text that isn't a disaster. We shall see where this takes us next. I'm open to suggestions re: tags, presentation, etc., as this is my first time on AO3. Thank you!
> 
> For this chapter, I had to:  
> \- Find the specific term to describe the top of an upright piano/harpsichord (there isn't really one, apparently);  
> \- Figure out what turpentine smells like (pine);  
> \- Find about 10,000 synonyms for "exhilarating", "gentle" and "look", without various degrees of success;  
> \- Determine whether the instrument in the movie is actually a harpsichord, or something else. ~~I gave up, I decided it's a harpsichord and we're gonna roll with it.~~ Following charlotteestailleurs' suggestion, I listened to the DVD commentary, and it appears that the instrument is a type of harpsichord called a spinet.


	2. Maia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [//Version française](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27339835/chapters/66966871)

It was nighttime. The wind blew heavily on the windows of the manor by the cliff, whistled through the branches, tearing off their remaining yellow leaves. The sky was black, flat.  
  
Sat close to the hearth in the ballroom, Marianne was painting. She had a small wooden tablet in one hand, and a brush dipped in white in the other. On the wood, an unfinished image. Marianne frequently looked up from it, observing, and going back to her work, tracing here a line, adding there a bit of light. Her models were immobile on the floor: Sophie lay on her back, and Héloïse, kneeling between the girl’s legs, leaning slightly over her. Marianne gave the painted Héloïse’s arm one last brush stroke, and looked over to the two women once more. Héloïse, serious, focused, did not notice the gaze on her.  
  
“Sit up,” Marianne said. “We are done for tonight.”  
  
Héloïse seemed to wake up. Sophie had fallen asleep from the infusion that she had drunk to ease the pain in her stomach. Héloïse pulled out her arm from under Sophie’s chemise, where she had placed it to pose. She then pulled out the sheet that she had slipped into her own dress as a makeshift apron, before slowly getting up and meeting Marianne. She let her fingers run across the painter’s shoulder before settling in the middle of her back. Marianne smiled. Héloïse’s hands were always warm.  
  
“Let me see,” Héloïse asked, now leaning over Marianne.  
  
“It isn’t done yet. I will continue tomorrow.”  
  
“Then let me see what you have so far.”  
  
Marianne flipped the tablet to reveal the painting. An unusual scene; an account of what they had seen earlier in the small stone house: Sophie, lying on her back, Héloïse playing the older woman at her feet. The outline was complete, but the colours were still rough.  
  
“I find it true,” the model commented simply. “What will you call it?”  
  
“I don’t know yet. Something about angels,” Marianne said.  
  
The painter stood up to leave the image out to dry. Héloïse followed her actions as she lay the wooden tablet on her work table, wiped her paintbrush, put away the white paint, and finally turned around to look at Sophie.  
  
“Let’s keep her here tonight,” Marianne said, kneeling close to the girl to feel her forehead with the back of her hand. “She may need another infusion later.”  
  
“Help me carry her to the bed,” Héloïse replied, already trying to get Sophie to sit up.  
  
Each woman helped her up by an arm. Sophie whined feebly, and Marianne shushed her gently to reassure her. The girl let herself be carried, her eyes foggy and her legs weak. There were only a few steps to the bed, but the distance was crossed slowly. Finally, Sophie was on the bed. Her head had barely touched the pillow before she was asleep again. Héloïse picked up a bed sheet from on the ground to cover Sophie. She turned around and, with a hand gesture, asked Marianne to help her undo her corset. Once she was relieved from it, she stood behind the painter and offered the same help, meticulously untying the cord before letting the corset fall down. She then slipped her arms around Marianne, resting her chin on her shoulder. Satisfied with their new pose, she pulled the woman closer to her and breathed out softly. Marianne felt like they were dancing. In only a few days, those gestures had become so natural.  
  
They stayed by the bed, looking out for a sign of discomfort from Sophie. There were only the sounds of the wind outside, and the fire in the hearth. After a moment, Héloïse turned her head slightly to whisper into Marianne’s ear:  
  
“There is something I want to ask you.”  
  
Marianne closed her eyes, as if to retain the warm breath against her neck a little longer. Héloïse, however, grew impatient, and she pressed her lips along her jawline. Marianne felt the smile against her face, and a need to kiss her. But the blond woman, determined to make her demand known, pulled away – cheerful, with an indecipherable gleam in her eye, which Marianne felt she had seen, somewhere, before.  
  
Héloïse kept one hand around Marianne’s wrist and took a step back, pulling the woman towards her. Another step back, one more, and the painter knew: they were going to the harpsichord at the end of the room, which had become orange in the light of the fire. Remembering the lullaby she had played, and Sophie now asleep besides them, Marianne pulled her arm away, refusing to go any further.  
  
“Héloïse. Wait.”  
  
The blond woman turned around, her eyes immediately meeting Marianne’s. They were glowing: it was the fire, but it was something else also. It was the same impetuous look that Héloïse had given her when she had turned around for the first time, on the edge of the cliff, on the edge of the world. The same energy. Marianne could never be tired of it.  
  
She wanted to reason with Héloïse, trying to remain serious despite the other woman’s amused look:  
  
“We can’t do this again,” she said, turning to Sophie. “She is right here.”  
  
Héloïse smiled, moved by Marianne’s attention.  
  
“I don’t want you to play,” she started. The deliberate pause. She obviously enjoyed the suspense.  
  
Marianne looked for the end of the sentence on the corner of Héloïse’s lips, in the raised eyebrow, without success.  
  
“I want you to show me.”  
  
Marianne’s eyes changed, became softer.  
  
“You never learned?” she asked.  
  
“My mother would’ve like me to, but when I was younger, I preferred running,” Héloïse explained, shrugging her shoulders.  
  
“So you haven’t changed.”  
  
Marianne stifled a laugh, and it was now her grabbing Héloïse’s hand to take her to the harpsichord. She sat in front of it and gestured to the young woman to join her. Héloïse did as she was told, sitting to her right on the bench, and turned a curious look to her. The painter straightened her back, putting one hand on the keyboard.  
  
“I know a melody that you’ll like,” she said. “Let me show you the moves now, and we can play it later. It is simple, you’ll see.”  
  
“How serious, all of a sudden,” Héloïse said with a smirk. “I could see you as a teacher.”  
  
Marianne shook her head, finding the hint of a compliment under the teasing.  
  
“Follow my hand,” she said, patiently repeating the sequence on the keys without pressing them. She kept her eyes on her student, judging her seriousness. Héloïse watched the hand sliding across the keys, a frown forming on her face. The wrinkle between her eyebrows made her look even more attentive, she was taking it so seriously now, and Marianne felt like she was capsizing. She stopped playing and felt the urge to reach for Héloïse’s face, to touch her and pull her closer. But she had heard steps behind her.  
  
Sophie was by the door, still tired, but looking healthier.  
  
“I will feel better being in my own bed. Goodnight,” she said, wearily. She closed the door without waiting for an answer.  
  
The two women had turned around to watch her leave. A gust of wind against the window caught Marianne’s attention. She looked at the harpsichord again, and Héloïse’s eyes followed. The blond woman’s tone was quieter now, as she asked:  
  
“Was it as painful for you?”  
  
“A little bit,” Marianne replied after taking a moment to think. “I felt pain for two days, and I slept a lot.”  
  
Héloïse frowned again, looking somber.  
  
“I do not regret it,” Marianne said to reassure her. “I can keep painting, traveling.”  
  
“Without it, you wouldn’t have come here,” Héloïse remarked.  
  
“No doubt.”  
  
Marianne’s heart sunk deeper in her chest. To have never come. To have never met Héloïse, never found her. Never touched her. A possibility that only existed outside of reality, but that made her dizzy nonetheless. And that gave her a glimpse into what was to come, inevitably. She looked through the window for a moment, into the night, feeling lost.  
  
Héloïse was also caught in her thoughts. She looked down and brushed her mouth with her hand. Marianne knew that habit. She reached out to touch Héloïse’s hand, brushing it with her fingertips. Patiently, Marianne traced a vein running down from the index to the wrist, and followed another one up to her ring finger. She spoke quietly:   
  
“I am here. Still here.”  
  
Marianne watched Héloïse soothe herself, her expression becoming more appeased and her eyes regaining their usual fire. She decided to do what Sophie had interrupted: she gently lifted up Héloïse’s face with a finger under her jaw, and moved her lips close to hers.  
  
“And we have a music lesson to finish,” she said, fingers now running along her neck and into the hair made golden by the fire behind them.  
  
She kissed her, recognizing a smile on her lips. Héloïse became more demanding, feeling for a waist with one hand, wanting to get closer. Marianne pulled back instead, keeping her forehead against Héloïse’s and opening her eyes. She saw her wet lips, her breathless mouth. Brought her hand closer to her face. Ran her thumb under her lower lip and asked:  
  
“Do you want to continue?”  
  
“The lesson, or this?”  
  
Héloïse smiled again, pleased with herself. She pressed her lips against Marianne’s finger, looking straight into her eyes. Delighted. This time, Marianne did not hold back and kissed the corner of her mouth, where the smile was the most teasing and irresistible. She followed her jawline and Héloïse gave in, turning her head to the side. Marianne went up to her temple, to the base of the hair, to the ear. Pulled the lobe softly between her lips. Smiled when she heard a sigh. Waited for Héloïse to answer her own question:  
  
“Yes. One more time. I want to remember.”  
  
Marianne pressed her lips once more against Héloïse’s neck before sitting up. The blond woman did the same. She had been blushing, and the painter adored the sight.  
  
She placed her hand on the harpsichord again and looked at the other woman:  
  
“Put your hand on mine. You’ll remember more easily.”  
  
Héloïse did not wait to be asked twice. She delicately positioned her right hand on Marianne’s and took the occasion to slide her left arm around her waist.  
  
“Pay attention to the rhythm. The melody will follow on its own.”  
  
Héloïse nodded, breathing in sharply.  
  
“Ready?” Marianne asked.  
  
“Ready.”  
  
Marianne moved her fingers, picking up from the verse she had started a few minutes before. Héloïse held her breath, focused on each move. The piece was simple and only required to remember a few notes. She soon understood the rhythm. Marianne then pulled her hand away from the instrument and invited Héloïse to play on her own, nuzzling the side of her face for further encouragement. The touch made Héloïse smile, and she played, still in silence, her fingers running awkwardly but accurately across the keys. Her performance complete, and feeling visibly proud, she turned her bright eyes to Marianne.  
  
“I did it,” she said, kissing Marianne on the cheek.  
  
“You did,” Marianne replied, her face heating up.  
  
“Thanks to you.”  
  
“You are a good student.”  
  
“And I continue to think you would be a good instructor.”  
  
With a radiant smile, Héloïse stood up and walked to the fireplace. Marianne chose the bed, laying down and observing the young woman as she stirred the remaining embers with a fire iron. Satisfied with the result, the woman stood in front of the fire for a moment. Marianne looked at the silhouette against the light. She tried to remember every last detail: the hair jealously catching the light; the powerful curve from the neck to the shoulder; the hands joined in front of the body; the orange halo enveloping the silhouette in an embrace that would have made anyone envious.  
  
At last, Héloïse came to bed. She cuddled up to Marianne, buried her face in her hair and left a hand on her chest. Softly, she tapped her fingers to the rhythm she had just learned, looking forward to hearing the melody. That night, she contented herself with the sound of the wind and Marianne’s slow breathing as she slept in her arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The author cannot guarantee the efficiency of ~~this fantasy~~ this teaching method._


	3. Orpheus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [//Version française](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27339835/chapters/67198615)

Marianne noticed the faint smell of fire first. She stirred slightly, felt the sheet brushing against her arms, and the pillow under her head. She opened her eyes: night fallen, the room soaked in darkness. The fire in the hearth painted shadows across the walls, and a familiar one stood out against the light from the chimney.  
  
The painter got up on her elbow and rested her head in her hand to observe Héloïse, who was reading, naked, by the fireplace. She was completely still, except for her eyes, oscillating to the rhythm of the lines. Marianne savoured the moment as the other woman did not notice her. She ran her eyes, as if they were her fingers, down the blond hair, down a shoulder blade, a dimple in the lower back, a hip, a knee bent under Héloïse. Shards of light fought for the shadow under her chin, the hollow above her heart, the reflections on the side of her ribs, in a series of chiaroscuros that Marianne wished she would have drawn herself. She had seen Héloïse in that position so many times before, at the beach, in the kitchen, always looking like she was posing sagely; but as she sat there, freed from the costumes, she looked more like a secret painting, or a model who refused to be concealed under layers of paint. She was calm, focused, intense, _beautiful_ , so evidently beautiful.  
  
Marianne felt a lump in her throat. She saw the cover of the book that kept Héloïse so attentive, and breathed a little louder. The sound was enough to distract Héloïse, and she turned her head towards the bed. Her face softened when she saw the half-open eyes and messy hair emerged from under the covers.  
  
“I see Ovid holds you spellbound,” Marianne remarked.  
  
“I was looking at you,” Héloïse replied, shifting the open book to the side to show it to her.  
  
Marianne recognized her self-portrait, which she had finished earlier, between two chapters in _Metamorphoses_. A figure lying down, her head on her hand in a similar pose to Marianne’s now. She remembered Héloïse’s critique of her own portrait a few days before. The accusation. The disfigured Héloïse.  
  
“Do you like it?” the painter asked.  
  
“Yes. I would have preferred a painting, but I think you are running out of canevas.”  
  
Héloïse smirked and tilted her head to one side, the way she always did when she teased her. Halfway between a joke and a challenge. But then her expression changed and she became quiet. “I like it. Truly.”  
  
A pause, long enough to imagine: “Would you have left, had I liked the first portrait?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Marianne said. “I would not have wanted to.”  
  
Héloïse nodded, understood the implication. She had her eyes fixed on the burgundy-coloured book cover.  
  
“Are you sure you want me to keep it?” she asked.  
  
“I am. There are more important things I would rather take back to Paris,” Marianne said as she sighed, before she realized the weight of her admission. She looked for Héloïse’s reaction, looked for words to explain.  
  
“And me to Milan,” the blond woman answered. Her tone became morose, implying that she did not want to discuss the matter further, but she still put the book down, stood up and sat at the edge of the bed. Marianne extended one arm her way, instinctively, looked for a touch. Finally found her hand, felt relieved.  
  
“Did I sleep for long?”  
  
“Long enough to miss supper. I told Sophie that you weren’t hungry.”  
  
“I am hungry now.”  
  
They put on their chemises. Marianne grabbed the book left on the floor by Héloïse and handed it to her. “Bring it down with us. I would like you to read once more.”  
  
Héloïse stared at the cover, but did not take it. “You mean…”  
  
_One last time_. Marianne knew. To say it was to make it unbearably real. The end palpable. She needed more time.  
  
A little bit of eternity.  
  
Marianne hesitated a moment, this time making sure to weigh her words. “Let me hear your voice as if I were to hear it every night,” she said, still holding the book. She lowered her tone and her eyes, too. “Please.”  
  
Héloïse finally took the book. She said nothing, choosing to watch Marianne light a candle. They walked out of the ballroom quietly, so as to not wake the rest of the house. Marianne saw Héloïse bite her lips as they were going down the stone steps to the kitchen.  
  
She helped herself to some bread, cheese and wine (she had become so used to it by now), and came back to the table. She poured Héloïse a glass of wine, sat at the corner of the table close to her, and watched her flip through the _Metamorphoses_. The candle was barely bright enough to light the book, and Héloïse had to frown to see better. She stopped on page 28 again, studied the drawing pensively, and turned the page. She read the first lines silently and looked at Marianne. “It’s the end of Orpheus’ story,” she said. “We hadn't finished it.”  
  
“Let’s hear that ending, then,” Marianne approved as she took a bite of bread.  
  
And then there was nothing but the crackling of the embers in the fireplace, and Héloïse’s voice, low and controlled. She recited the wanderings of the mournful Orpheus: “ _While the poet of Thrace, with songs like these, drew to himself the trees, the souls of wild beasts, and the stones that followed him, see, how the frenzied Ciconian women, their breasts covered with animal skins, spy Orpheus from a hilltop, as he matches songs to the sounding strings. One of them, her hair scattered to the light breeze, called: ‘Behold, behold, this is the one who scorns us!’ and hurled her spear at the face of Apollo’s poet, as he was singing. Tipped with leaves, it marked him, without wounding. The next missile was a stone, that, thrown through the air, was itself overpowered by the harmony of voice and lyre, and fell at his feet…_ ”  
  
Héloïse interrupted her reading and raised her eyes to meet Marianne's. “Why are they attacking him?” she asked.  
  
The painter remembered the previous chapter from the night of the bonfire. “He remains loyal to Eurydice. He turned down their advances, and they can’t bear it.”  
  
“And his songs are protecting him,” Héloïse observed.  
  
“For now. Keep going.”  
  
Héloïse began reading again: “... _but the huge clamour of the Berecyntian flutes of broken horn, the drums, and the breast-beating and howls of the Bacchantes, drowned the sound of the lyre. Then, finally, the stones grew red, with the blood of the poet, to whom they were deaf... As he stretched out his hands, speaking ineffectually for the first time ever, not affecting them in any way with his voice, the impious ones murdered him: and the spirit, breathed out through that mouth to which stones listened, and which was understood by the senses of wild creatures – O, God! – vanished down the wind._ ”  
  
She fell silent again, in shock. “They killed him”, she murmured, glued to the page.  
  
“Out of jealousy,” Marianne commented. “His broken heart was his only fault.”  
  
She had stopped eating. She grabbed the pipe that she had brought downstairs with her and lit it with the fire of the candle. Inhaled, handed it to Héloïse, who did the same before concluding: “ _The ghost of Orpheus sank under the earth, and recognized all those places it had seen before; and, searching the fields of the Blessed, he found his wife again and held her eagerly in his arms. There they walk together side by side; now she goes in front, and he follows her; now he leads, and looks back as he can do, in safety now, at his Eurydice._ ”  
  
Ovid’s words resonated in the kitchen. Marianne saw Héloïse’s shadow dancing behind her. She also saw her eyes going back and forth across the last line of the page. Looking for an explanation or a resolution and looking completely absorbed.  
  
“Maybe he just stopped singing,” Marianne suggested.  
  
Héloïse seemed to wake from her trance. “As if he had wanted to die?”  
  
“He had sworn to the gods of the underworld that he would die if he could not get Eurydice back. What was the point of continuing to proclaim his love ? He may not have his lyre, or his mouth to sing anymore, but he finally has Eurydice now.”  
  
“He grew tired of being the poet.”  
  
“He grew tired of the memory.”  
  
Héloïse paused, pondering Marianne’s argument. And then her shoulders slumped and she pretended to hit her head on the table before mumbling: “I don’t think I like this ending very much.”  
  
Marianne laughed. She took the book from Héloïse's hands delicately, flipped the pages back, and gave it back to her. “You can always pretend that the story ends on page 28.” They chuckled together, but their laugh became greyer, the kind that could turn too easily into tears.  
  
Héloïse sighed and proposed that they go to bed. They took the same path, the same stairs back up to the ballroom. Sat together on the bed in silence. Looked for something to say. To not waste what was left. Find words to turn back the clocks and, perhaps, reinvent some promises.  
  
Marianne felt Héloïse’s hand on hers. “I still haven’t heard the song that you taught me the other night,” the woman said. “Come play it for me.” She wanted to stand up, but Marianne held her back.  
  
“Stay.”  
  
“You don’t want to?”  
  
“I do.” The painter smiled timidly, and she knew Héloïse understood, because she squeezed her hand a little harder as an encouragement.  
  
Marianne closed her eyes, remembered Héloïse’s fingers on hers when she had taught her the song in silence. She started to hum the pleasant sound of the first verse; the melancholy in the chorus. The melody, playful and nostalgic at once. As if Orpheus in exile had recited a nursery rhyme. Héloïse turned Marianne’s hand towards the sky and gave her a beat with her fingertips on her palm; at the end it was but a slow movement.  
  
“I did not know you could sing,” Héloïse said.  
  
“Me neither.”  
  
“It’s sweet. And sad.”  
  
“Yes. The lyrics are, too.”  
  
Marianne finally looked at Héloïse. She did not need guess what the burning blue eyes were asking.  
  
_À la claire fontaine  
_ _M’en allant promener  
  
_ She stood up gently and pulled Héloïse towards her. Took her time.  
  
_J’ai trouvé l’eau si belle  
_ _Que je m’y suis baignée  
  
_ Took her hand and slipped the other arm around her.  
  
_Il y a longtemps que je t’aime  
_ _Jamais je ne t’oublierai  
  
_ Swung from foot to foot. Prayed as much as she sang.  
  
_Sous les feuilles d’un chêne  
_ _Je me suis fait sécher  
_ _Sur la plus haute branche  
_ _Un rossignol chantait  
  
_ _Il y a longtemps que je t’aime  
_ _Jamais je ne t’oublierai  
  
_ _Chante, rossignol, chante  
_ _Toi qui a le cœur gai  
_ _Tu as le cœur à rire  
_ _Moi, je l’ai à pleurer  
  
_ _Il y a longtemps que je t’aime  
_ _Jamais je ne t’oublierai  
  
_ Felt like being born and living and dying there and then.  
  
A little bit of eternity.  
  
And then there was the smell of fire, first. Always. Then the smell of oil paint.  
The taste of salt from a tear on her lips. The taste of wine that was still there.  
The warmth of Héloïse buried in her neck. The collar of her chemise made damp.  
The shadows of branches beaten by the wind, outside. The moonlight.  
The heartbeat crashing against her temples. The strain in Héloïse’s voice when she spoke.  
  
“I would like you to sing every night.”  
  
“Will you remember?”  
  
“Always.”  
  
“Promise me.”  
  
And, at last, murmured like the seal on a love letter: “I promise you.”  
  
They went to bed. Face to face, with a bit of space between them. Observed each other. Memorized each other. And became sleepy. Héloïse was nodding off. Opened her eyes, closed them again. Marianne stroked her temple, her cheek with the back of her hand. Ran her thumb as delicately as possible across the eyelashes on her closed eyes. _Stay a little longer_ , she wanted to say. _Stay. Give me time. One more song. One more portrait. Stay. I love you. I love you. I love you._ She couldn’t do it. She only whispered:  
  
“Ne dors pas. Ne dors pas, ne dors pas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _At the clear fountain  
>  As I was walking by  
> I found the water so beautiful  
> I bathed for a time_
> 
> _I have loved you for so long  
>  I will never forget you_
> 
> _Under the leaves of an oak  
>  I let myself dry  
> On the highest branch  
> A nightingale sang_
> 
> _I have loved you for so long  
>  I will never forget you_
> 
> _Sing, Nightingale, sing  
>  You, with the joyful heart  
> You have a heart to laugh  
> Mine is only to cry_
> 
> _I have loved you for so long_  
>  I will never forget you
> 
> Quotes from Ovid’s _Metamorphoses_ [here](https://ovid.lib.virginia.edu/trans/Metamorph11.htm)


	4. Mnemosyne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [//Version française](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27339835/chapters/67592948)

_Don't regret. Remember. Don't regret. Remember.  
  
__Remember.  
  
_If there was one thing Marianne knew how to do, it was remembering. Images came back in waves, sometimes a rising tide, slow, almost imperceptible; sometimes a tidal wave, swelling and paralyzing. Sometimes the trace of a touch or a word whispered late in the night, sometimes the breeze or the rain, imagined, hallucinated.  
  
But most often, it was the waves.  
  
And then there were the times where Héloïse appeared in the middle of the crowd, at parties, on a street corner, at the bakery, at the shoemaker, at the tailor, in dark corridors, in the corners of the studio. Always an instant, motionless and silent, always the same shadow folding on her to make her disappear. And every time, Marianne had the same icy feeling, the same furiously beating hard, and the same urge to vomit. At first, she thought she was losing her mind, a feeling of never being done crying, as if she had had her guts pulled out and she could not stop bleeding. She had wondered if the ghost would haunt her until the end of her days. However, no wound is forever open, and with time, ghost Héloïse had made herself more discreet. These days, Marianne did not see her anymore.  
  
_Don’t regret. Remember.  
  
_Memory is one thing; regret is another, and Marianne had trouble following her own advice. She could make up for the painful memories with some sweeter ones, but regret was never so easily balanced with hypotheses or an “if”. With an if, Héloïse would have followed her down the stairs and to the sea and to the end of the Earth. Imagining the if’s was a pointless and disappointing exercise.  
  
What remained, then, was regret: that low and heavy sound in the pit of her stomach, making itself small, only to surface at the slightest memory. It watched its prey, but never ate it: it only terrorized it, then let it go, and waited for the next occasion to ruin its day. A beast with which Marianne would have to learn to live with, if she ever wanted to find peace.  
  
“Miss?”  
  
The student who had just called her was looking at her, puzzled. Marianne’s eyes swept around the room, she remembered where she was. The studio she had just purchased. A large room, still empty, but bright and welcoming, and high ceilings, as a way to encourage reflection and inspiration. For now, only some furniture and tools lay around under white sheets in the room. At the centre, she planned to have a stand made for the models. At the back, shelves to display her art and her students’. On the windows, curtains to control the lighting. Her portrait work from the past few years had allowed her to make that childhood dream come true. Her father, who was satisfied with his daughter’s progress, had also contributed.  
  
For now, since there wasn’t a proper stand yet, Marianne was posing on a stool in the middle of the room. In front of her, busy with a sketchbook, her first tutoring contract: Jeanne, 14 years old, blond, pink cheeks, bright eyes, and a dress more grey from the charcoal than white from its original colour. A cousin come straight from Rennes to study with her. Marianne wasn’t sure whether she had truly been sent to her for her painting talents, or as a friendly gesture towards her father, but in any case, she appreciated the distraction, especially since the young girl was staying with her.  
  
“Miss Marianne?” This time the tone was worried. “Are you unwell?”  
  
Marianne understood that she had spent the past minutes in silence, staring at the ground. Jeanne had been sketching without a single instruction.  
  
“I was distracted. Carry on,” Marianne said as she brushed her forehead with the back of her hand.  
  
“You are so pale, I cannot draw you with this charcoal,” Jeanne laughed.  
  
“Try to concentrate.”  
  
The student scowled, then frowned, attentive. Her eyes went quickly between the paper and Marianne. “Look at the length of my neck,” the painter said. “Don't make me too short like last time.”  
  
Jeanne erased a line with the side of her hand, drew a new one, observed the result, and sunk onto her stool. “I can't do it. This time I made you too long.”  
  
“Be patient,” Marianne said softly. “Try again. Take your time. I won’t move a muscle.”  
  
Another try. The uncertain look of the student between the model and the page. “Perhaps we could take a break,” Jeanne suggested. “Would you like to get some air? My hand is numb.”  
  
Marianne sighed. “I would like to, but show me your progress first.” She walked around her cousin to check her work. A study of Marianne’s face. Black lines that were still clumsy, but an undeniable effort.  
  
“This isn’t bad,” Marianne said, eyes half closed. “The proportions of my nose are not quite perfect yet, but you have improved since last time. The neck is good. And you better understand the shape of the cheek and the ear.”  
  
“You have so often repeated your lesson about the ear. I know it by heart. _One must show the ear..._ ”  
  
“And I was right to repeat it. See, you did it this time. You deserve your break.”  
  
Jeanne squealed with joy, jumped off of her stool and scampered towards the door. She immediately turned around, came back, put down the charcoal she had forgotten in her hand, and rushed towards the exit again. Marianne thought it had been a long time since she had last ran. And she went outside.  
  
The studio overlooked Cléry street. Marianne was walking behind Jeanne, who was still bouncing on the cobblestone, stopping to look inside the window of an art trader, and again at the door of a wigmaker. Marianne smiled. She did not understand where all of the child’s energy came from, but her enthusiasm was contagious. “Let’s not go too far, Jeanne,” she warned as the girl was walking away. “Remember this afternoon’s plans. We need to work on your paintbrush technique.”  
  
“You know, we are in the middle of a carnival,” Jeanne said, pretending not to hear her teacher. She pressed her arms against her sides, standing straight in the middle of the street like a student reciting a well-learned lesson. “There are parties, theatre, dance, parades, balls. I don't want to miss any of it.”  
  
“You have learned your Parisian calendar well.” Marianne was amused.  
  
“Of course. Oh! Look at all those masks.”  
  
They were approaching place des Victoires, where a small comedy troupe was putting on a show for the bystanders. Jeanne squeezed into the crowd and Marianne did the same, albeit trying to shove less people. She found her cousin clapping her hands to a cheerful tune as the actors pretended to fight over a coin on the ground. The painter leant towards the girl to make herself heard among the spectators who were now cheering for their favourite characters. “I sometimes wonder whether you really came to study with me, or just to party.”  
  
“Don't be silly, Miss Marianne,” Jeanne replied, turning her head to her cousin, her cheeks even more pink, her mouth panting and the exhilarated look of a child witnessing the adults’ buffoonery. She grabbed the painter’s arm. “I would not have come, had it not been for you.”  
  
The afternoon went by quickly: Jeanne was (more easily than usually) convinced to go back to the studio. She worked diligently all afternoon and made considerable progress with the brush. At nightfall, Marianne ended the lesson and they went upstairs, to the apartment, for dinner.  
  
“Coq au vin again?” Jeanne complained as she pouted in front of the plate Marianne had just handed her.  
  
“Come on, now, you’re not a baby anymore. Eat,” Marianne replied, sitting close to her and hoping for a quiet meal.  
  
“We’ve already eaten that twice this week.”  
  
“Yes, and we are not going to throw away the leftovers.”  
  
“Why do you make it so often?”  
  
Marianne breathed loudly and put down her spoon with a _clang_ that made Jeanne jump. The student silently watched her dropping her head into her hands.  
  
“I don't know. I like it. I…” The painted shook her head. “It makes me feel like I am tasting a good memory.”  
  
The girl refused to move, but she spoke. “You were thinking about it this morning. In the studio. You were… elsewhere.”  
  
“Yes. Forgive me. I was not appropriate.”  
  
“That’s not true,” Jeanne said, putting her hand on Marianne’s forearm. “You are an excellent teacher.”  
  
Marianne’s heart twisted. She raised her eyes wet with tears towards Jeanne and smiled feebly. The girl continued, compassionate and a touch curious: “Do you want to tell me that memory?”  
  
“I’m not sure. It’s late, and tomorrow we have to–”  
  
“You’ve told me so little about yourself,” Jeanne added, squeezing her arm a bit more and leaning forward. “Forget about painting for a moment.”  
  
“I don't know if I can,” Marianne said with a cheerless laugh.  
  
“Try.” Jeanne sat up, her back straight and her hands on her knees. She posed the same way Marianne had posed a few hours ago. “Take your time. I won’t move a muscle,” she repeated with a grin.  
  
“I have a hard time believing that.”  
  
The painter laughed more heartily this time. She felt her student’s intense gaze on herself. And she felt her defenses fall, perhaps from tiredness, or perhaps also from surrender. “I remember the tide. It rose so slowly, but I thought I could hear it from far away. I heard the wind, too. Every night was windy. I remember running, on the sand, by a cliff, up and down a staircase. Slipping, shivering, getting up again. I remember the winter cold, it gently turned into warmth as the days went by. The wind never weakened, but the cold did. And I remember the fire that dried me on the first night. Small flames became amazing bonfires. I remember the warmth inside me, something like apprehension, excitement, and also a softness. A lightness. I could’ve walked on water. And, always, that rising tide, those waves, that beat, until I realized that it was my heart and I was utterly alive.”  
  
Marianne fell silent, knew that she had talked for a long time. Jeanne had lowered her eyes, as if she had heard a secret that she wasn’t supposed to know. “It sounds like love,” she murmured.  
  
“Something like that, yes,” Marianne replied. She was lost in her thoughts, somewhere between the sea, the cliff, the manor, the clavecin. She rose from her seat. “I’m going to the studio.”  
  
“You’re going to paint? At this hour?”  
  
“I only need a moment. Try not to go to sleep too late.”  
  
She grabbed a candle and walked to the door as Jeanne watched her. She went down the stairs. The studio was dark, but glimmers in the window suggested that the carnival was in full swing a few streets away. The Moon was almost full. Marianne looked around the room. Inspected the darkness.  
  
She saw Héloïse. And Héloïse immediately disappeared.  
  
The painter stumbled, gasped. The flame flickered in her hand. Her eyes fixed on the corner where the ghost had appeared, she walked towards it, towards the covered furniture that waited there. She reached forward, her heart tight with guilty hope. Her palm swept the emptiness, then found one of the sheets and the hard wood beneath it. She pulled the sheet, revealing white keys. Her mother’s clavecin.   
  
Breathless, Marianne looked around her, noticed a wooden crate. She it pulled towards her to sit, put down the candle. Ran her shaking fingers on the keyboard. A familiar gesture. She pressed one of the keys and the instrument whined, but the sound reassured her. The painter breathed in deeply and played. She told the story of running, wind, cold; fire, warmth, softness; doubt, possibility, certainty.  
  
Héloïse, the ghost, the portraits, the Héloïse of flesh and boiling blood and smiles and tears and life.  
  
The notes bounced between the walls in the empty room, until the last one, which languished a little longer. Then it was the silence of the night, cool and quiet, that brought Marianne back to herself. The distant rumble of the carnival sounded like the sea. She took the candle, walked slowly around the studio to wake her heavy legs. Then, looking to do the same with her hands, she grabbed a brush that Jeanne had let out to dry earlier. The painter span it between her fingers, checked that it was clean in the candlelight, ran her index finger through the rough bristles.   
  
Finally she breathed.  
  
“I knew I would find you with a paintbrush in your hands.” A voice behind her. Marianne turned around swiftly and saw, sat on her stool, Jeanne’s rosy figure in her chemise.   
  
Marianne smiled. “I think I only know how to do that.”  
  
“You play well, too.”  
  
“You heard me?”  
  
“I recognized the piece.”  
  
“You know Vivaldi?”  
  
“The Vivaldi that I’ve been begging you for weeks to let me go hear? _Vaguely_ ,” Jeanne said, shrugging her shoulders.  
  
“We’ll go together,” Marianne conceded.  
  
“You need it more than I do. You know, if you can't forget about painting, maybe that is your key. Maybe you only need to paint.”  
  
“It’s difficult to paint your own emotions.”  
  
“You won’t lose anything trying. You can always toss away the painting, if it doesn’t please you.”  
  
Marianne laughed and something tightened in her chest. “I know that method.”  
  
“The contrary would have surprised me.”  
  
The student got up and walked to the stairs as silently as she had come down. She looked at her tutor. “Try,” she whispered with kind eyes. And she disappeared at the top of the stairs.   
  
Alone again, the painter picked a white canevas among those piled against a window. She put it down on an easel, took a step back, thought of a composition, an idea. Then she closed her eyes and did not think anymore.  
  
She saw herself running again, towards a dancing light through the trees. She saw a bonfire, the heat of the embers floating all around, and the melody of a song urging her to stop running. Stop running away.  
  
She saw a smile. She remembered.  
  
She opened her eyes and started sketching with a pencil. A dramatic sky. The edge of a forest. A plain. A lady. There would be a bit of blue in the hair, some white on the cheek. Bright light in the darkness.  
  
There would be moonlight, fire, and a memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (How I missed Héloïse this chapter.)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who took the time to read, comment, and explore with me new possibles through Marianne and Héloïse’s story.


End file.
